Reichenbach Falls. There was nothing like that in the Twin Cities or anywhere near. But there was a rather famous waterfall in a park across the river in Minneapolis: Minnehaha Falls. It was a thin prospect, but the only one I had.
It was nearing dark when I arrived at the park, and I was greeted with an amazing sight. Near the falls stood a pavilion with a bustling restaurant and outdoor patio. The pavilion was surrounded by tall trees, and on the grass between the trees a multitude of colorful tents had been set up. A huge banner strung between two of the trees declared SOUTH MINNEAPOLIS NEIGHBORHOOD CIRCUS. Temporary floodlights lit the scene. Carnival music blared. On a little stage, a man in a jester’s costume was juggling swords. A tightrope hung a few feet off the ground, and a young woman dressed as a ballerina and carrying a parasol balanced precariously on the line. In front of the tents, local hawkers called to the milling crowd to come inside and see the wonders of two-headed snakes and dogs who did tricks and yogis who could turn themselves into pretzels. There were games of all kinds, and the air was redolent with the smell of cotton candy and mini-donuts, and children ran to and fro trailing balloons on long strings. And everywhere there were clowns.
I made my way among the confusion of bodies to the bridge above Minnehaha Creek and its waterfall. We’d had a wet spring. The creek was full, and the water swept in a roaring torrent over the edge of the falls. Laughing children half-climbed the stone walls that edged the bridge. Their parents called harsh warnings to them or pulled them back. The bridge was lit with glaring streetlamps that had come on with the dark, and the people on it cast shadows so that it seemed as if the bridge was populated by two species, one of flesh and the other of black silhouettes.
I couldn’t see Oliver anywhere, nor could I see a clown that looked like the one I’d seen coming from Palladium Pizza. But I knew Moriarty had used different costumes in the past, so God only knew how he might have been dressed that night. I searched desperately, overwhelmed with a mounting sense of dread.
A scream shot like a rocket above the chaos of sounds around me. It came from the other end of the bridge. The scream of a child. I turned and pushed through the crowd in that direction. Another scream, and my heart raced as the crowd parted before me. I came at last to a place where a little boy stood near a clown who knelt with a huge boa constrictor draped over his shoulders.
“He won’t bite,” the clown assured the boy. “But he might swallow you.”
The clown leaned nearer, with the snake’s head in his hand. The boy screamed again and danced back, but it was clear he was delighted.
The crowd had formed a little circle and was focused on the boy and the snake. That’s when I caught sight of Oliver Wendell Holmes. He was standing off the bridge, in the shadows next to a tree near the edge of the chasm where the creek ran and fell fifty feet to the rocks below. He wore the deerstalker hat and the cape of his own making. He was alone, and I was washed in a great relief.
Then, from behind the tree next to Holmes, the clown emerged, with that grotesque grin painted on his face, that cruel mockery of good intent.
“Oliver!” I cried.
But at that same moment, the boy near the snake screamed again, and the crowd roared with laughter and gave their applause, and my desperate cry was lost.
I watched helplessly as the clown reached out and little Holmes turned suddenly to face him. The clown grasped the boy and shoved him toward the edge of the precipice. Oliver in turn grabbed the clown, and in the next instant, my heart broke as I watched them tumble together over the edge of the precipice.
“Oliver!” I cried again, though I knew it was hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.
I shoved my way across the bridge and off the path to the tree where the boy and the clown had fallen. I knelt, leaned over the edge, and looked down at the bottom of the chasm. The streetlamps on the bridge lit the scene below with a raw glare, and I saw the body of the clown sprawled on the rocks where the water crashed and ran on. But I saw no sign of Oliver.
“I could use a hand, Watson.”
The voice startled me. In disbelief, I stared below where young Holmes hung upside down, flat against the chasm wall, his right ankle secured with a rope that, as I followed it, I could see was tied to the base of the tree. I drew him up quickly. When I’d pulled him to safety, I couldn’t help myself. I took him firmly into my arms and hugged him dearly.
“Please, Watson, a little decorum,” Holmes whispered into my ear.
“I took his number off my aunt’s cell phone and called him,” the boy explained to me as we stood on the bridge with the rest of the crowd and watched the body being dealt with below. We’d talked with several policemen already and were waiting for a detective who was supposed to arrive soon to take our official statements.
“I told him I knew who he was and that I wanted to meet him here, and that if he didn’t come I would tell my aunt exactly who he was, and I would inform the police as well.”